It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes...
Innocent mumbled Paul Lawrence Dunbar’s poem like a desparate prayer, his voice the low hiss of a barely-boiling tea kettle, and stared at where his boss Renée had been standing only a moment before. In a fresh outfit appropriate for her evening plans, she had rushed into Innocent’s office to unload yet another of her last-minute projects that she had been “too busy” to inform him of before, and then left in a huff.
Monday. Like Friday, like Wednesday ... sometimes like Sunday. He dragged his hand through non-existent hair and scratched at hours-old stubble. Thumbed through Renée’s latest emergency and decided he could knock it out at six tomorrow morning. He was only twenty minutes late for Marcus’s book signing at Brown Betty Books. He gulped the rest of his Dr Pepper and left.
